


hope borne out of toil

by whalersandsailors



Series: hopes, fragile & unsure [2]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, During Canon, Episode: s01e07 Horrible from Supper, Eventual Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rare Pairings, Sharing a Bed, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, The good ol they call each other by their first names for the first time trope, we're doing a little diverging timelines yall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-10-26 06:04:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20737424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whalersandsailors/pseuds/whalersandsailors
Summary: After the arrival of Crozier's sledge party to Terror Camp, Sergeant Tozer joins the first lieutenant for an unexpected cup of tea.





	hope borne out of toil

**Author's Note:**

> a companion piece to [hope lost on yesterdays](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20472074). both can be read independently of each other.

> _when Hope but made tranquillity be felt—_
> 
> _a flight of hopes for ever on the wing_
> 
> _but made tranquillity a conscious thing—_
> 
> _and wheeling round and round in sportive coil_
> 
> _fann'd the calm air upon the brow of toil—_
> 
> _ \- samuel taylor coleridge_

Solomon hounds the perimeter of the camp, the captain’s refusal a stinging blow to his pride. He avoids Hickey and his sharp face and beady eyes. Instead, Solomon takes the afternoon to familiarize himself with his marines; which tents are theirs, the condition of their uniforms and rifles, which seamen accompanies them.

With Sergeant Bryant long dead, all the marines fall under Solomon’s management. The grumbling of the Erebites dies down when Solomon takes the time to speak personally with each man, learn his name, memorize his face, and make himself available to them both as their ranking officer and also as their friend. Unsuccessful as he may have been convincing the captain to arm more of the men, Solomon knows where the loyalties of his men lie, damn the captain and his constant resistance to reason.

His shift on watch is not until the early hours of the morning, during the brief springtime darkness, so he trudges back to the camp, desiring nothing else but to find a comfortable corner, strip from his slops, and ration out his tobacco. He plans to roll a sliver of a faggot in the attempt to draw out his dwindling supply for as long as he is able. The acrid smoke burning in his lungs is one of the few luxuries that he has left. He needs it to forget the cold, forget the scraping noise of the boats dragging across the ice, forget the disembodied heads that wracked his dreams the night prior; his hands start to tremble at the anticipation alone.

Lieutenant Little stands beside one of the fires, near a triad of tents. He is dressed down to his greatcoat. Both his hat and shotgun are gone. His chin lifts when he sees Solomon approaching, eyebrows raising and the ghost of a smile flashing on his face.

(It has only been seven days since he has last seen him, but his heart had clenched at the sight of him alongside the captain, shoulders and back straight as always. In the time that separated them, his cheeks had grown lean and his chin scruffy with stubble; the first a cause of concern, the latter a source of playful arousal at the sight of the man growing less restrained than he had been on the ship.)

When Solomon is close enough that the lieutenant can see his blank expression, the flat eyes and downward tug of his lips, his own face falls a bit.

However, he is not deterred from falling into step with the sergeant, and unspeaking, the two of them continue their walk past a line of tents until they are on the other side of the camp, away from prying ears.

Edward ducks his head into one of the canvas structures, crates stacked high on one side, an unoccupied bed made of wolfskin and a woolen blanket on the other. Most curiously of all — what draws Solomon's eye — is the silver teapot placed on one of the crates. Two cups sit beside it, each with its matching saucer and a spoon balanced on its edge.

Solomon raises an eyebrow at the display.

“Bit strange for a marine and lieutenant to share afternoon tea, don’t you think?”

Edward’s dark eyes sparkle at him — Solomon’s chest flutters again at the sight — and he gestures for Solomon to sit on the blankets.

“Nowhere in the Articles does it say we cannot be friends, Tozer.”

At that, Solomon snorts as he drops onto his backside, folding his legs comfortably as he watches Edward fuss with the tea set, careful with the cups before he hands one of them to Solomon, switching which cup he gives Solomon after a second’s consideration.

The china is dainty, borrowed from a straw and dust crate of wardroom delicacies. The rims of the cup are dipped in liquid gold, and the handles are as thin and fragile as swans’ necks. The porcelain cup is dwarfed by Solomon’s wide, gloved palm, and the numbness of his fingers makes it difficult to maneuver the cup without breaking it.

The one Edward selected for himself has a fraction of its lip cracked and missing. Edward likely gave Solomon the untarnished cup as a sign of courtesy, but an irrational surge of anger flares through Solomon’s stomach, as though he were insulted by Edward’s insinuation that he is too brutish to handle something as foreign and fine in his hands as a damn tea cup.

Solomon works the tension in between his teeth, his eyes narrowing and mouth aching from his deep frown. Edward seemingly does not notice when he lifts the teapot and pours the miserable excuse for tea into each of their cups.

Solomon stares at the pale liquid while Edward settles onto the blankets beside him.

“Does Mr. Jopson know that you’ve acquisitioned one of the wardroom tea sets?”

He means it as a joke, but there is a bite in his words that makes Edward hover his hand uncertainly over his cup, his eyes dropping to the ground.

“He won’t mind as long we don’t break anything.”

The anger returns, and Solomon chews the inside of his cheek to keep himself from snapping. Edward starts to bring the cup to his lips, stops half way, and lets his hand fall back into his lap, the tea spilling onto his trousers.

Solomon sighs raggedly and uses his free hand to pull Edward's arm close enough to thread their fingers together. Edward glances over, and though the fringe of his hair masks his eyes, his frown lessens. He gently squeezes Solomon’s hand.

Solomon brings the cup to his lips, feeling foolishly like a child playacting the role of a wardroom officer, epaulettes and all. He grimaces when the liquid hits his tongue. The tea has been boiled time and time again, so what paltry flavor they dredge from the leaves is more to suffice the men’s comforts than provide a genuine beverage. A steward might have had the special ability to eke out some semblance of taste, but with Edward’s less experienced ministrations, the tea is heat and little else. Truthfully, Solomon has never favored tea. Thus the scalding liquid is a boon as it burns down his throat and to his belly. He can almost pretend that he is not cold and has not been for years.

Edward silently drinks from his cup, as well, coughing when the heat of it burns his lip.

Chuckling in sympathy, Solomon brings Edward's hand to his lips and kisses the knuckles. Finally, the ice between them begins to thaw, a small smile warming Edward’s face.

“How was your journey across the ice?” Edward asks, blowing on his tea before sipping it again.

Solomon hesitates, words dangerous and forbidden forming on the tip of his tongue with the accusing eyes of mutineers and dead men alike boring into his mind.

“We’re here, aren’t we?”

An evasive answer to a shallow, uninterested question. Some of the tension leaves Solomon’s shoulders when Edward accepts the answer with a nod.

“And yours?” Solomon asks, his unspoken fears and helpless rage fouling the question in his mouth.

Edward manages a thin smile.

“We made it to land, and that’s what matters,” he says, a mirror of Solomon’s words. “No sign of the creature. Some of the floes were treacherous as we traveled. The ice cracked near one of our tents the first night. No one fell in, but I couldn’t sleep after that.”

“You look all right now,” Solomon points out. “Better than you did on the ship.”

Edward inclines his head, a sardonic slant to his lips as he sips from his cup. “Sleeping for more than two hours at a time will do that.”

“Speaking of,” Solomon starts, dragging the words out, watching Edward from the corner of his eye; “I should get some sleep myself before first watch.”

Deliberately, slowly, Solomon reaches where he can place the cup and saucer on the crate.

“You can sleep here, if you would like,” Edward says, his tone light.

Solomon looks at him and removes the cup from his hands, returning it to the crate with its brother. He feels a hand, shy and trembling, reaching toward his chest through the heavy material of the slops. Solomon catches it, pulling Edward close to him as he sits down again. Needing no further invitation, the man wraps both his arms around Solomon’s middle and presses his face into his shoulder.

Glancing toward the entrance of the tent, a reminder that its canvas flap is securely shut, blocking them from an outsider’s view, Solomon brings his lips to Edward’s temple.

Edward sighs, a great moaning exhalation as he sags against Solomon. 

"I missed this," he says.

“I’m not keeping you from your duties?”

A tired chuckle. “There’s less for me to do here than on ship.”

He lifts his chin, and Solomon kisses him, their noses clumsily bumping into each other. Solomon strips of his slops and boots; Edward likewise removes his outer clothing. As the weak sunlight fades outside, the two of them lie under the blankets, face-to-face, their knees and stockinged feet brushing together.

Solomon thinks how easy it would be to take advantage of this unexpected respite, the privacy he had assumed would not exist for the two of them inside the land camp, but every time he blinks for longer than a second, he recalls the rotting and frozen heads of Fairholme’s party.

His eyes fly open, his brow furrowing. Edward strokes his thumb against the bearded line of his jaw. He asks in a whisper if he is all right. Solomon shakes his head and kisses Edward hard, their teeth clacking as he slips his tongue between Edward’s lips. Edward grips at his neck, groaning into the kiss. When Solomon pulls away, a choked, discontented whimper slips from Edward.

“We can talk of it later,” he says, brushing the wavy strands of hair from Edward’s forehead. “I only want to sleep now.”

He dreams of a roaring darkness, through he cannot be sure if the noise comes from the monster, a raging storm, or if he himself is screaming.

The heads are lined up, their mouths unhinged and gaping. The one nearest to him opens its foggy blue eyes, fixating its wintry glare on Solomon as he asks in a voice that fills the air with a booming shudder and timber, his teeth clacking in a discordant echo — _Who will help us? Who will help us find our way home?_

Edward is turned away from him when he wakes. Solomon lingers for a few minutes more, running his fingers lightly along the man’s neck, past his shoulders, and down his side. Edward stirs when Solomon presses a kiss on the nape of his neck. In the dark of the tent, he’s careful to be as noiseless as he can while he dresses. He bites back a curse when his knees bump into the crate, and the cups clatter.

Shuffling under the blankets, Edward mumbles, “Tozer?”

Blindly, Solomon pats the blankets, finding Edward’s thigh. “If one of them broke, sir, I’ll take full responsibility with Jopson later.”

A groan or laugh, Solomon cannot make out the next sound, but the man otherwise does not respond. Without another word, Solomon fits his welsh wig over his hair, slings his rifle over his shoulder, and leaves.

The screams are enough to wake the dead, and Solomon is far enough from the epicenter of the panic that he is delayed in understanding that it is only seaman Morfin wailing and not some wraith come to torment them on the shale.

The man himself is raving, his face contorted and rabid. A crowd has formed a half moon around the man, cautious and curious and most of all confused. The captains stand before Morfin, trying to calm him, but when he grabs a rifle, alarm ripples through the men.

Solomon is quick on his feet, the butt of his rifle held tight to his shoulder as he creeps closer, placing Morfin in the center of his sights. As Crozier croons and coddles, Solomon rests his index finger on the trigger, his mouth taut and nostrils flared as he watches for the most minute threat.

“Wait, not yet.”

He jerks, eyes darting to the side where Edward steps from the shadows and holds a hand out toward him, looking disheveled as he edges closer, his wide-eyed gaze locked on Crozier and Fitzjames.

Solomon’s retort is cut off before he can think the words, when those dark eyes move to him and in a low voice meant only for his ears, Edward pleads, “Solomon. Please.”

He is frozen as Edward’s hand covers his, fingers curling around the barrel of the gun as he guides it toward the ground. The motion is repeated a few paces away as Crozier and Goodsir flank Morfin, gently tugging the rifle from his clawed hands. Morfin collapses, weeping, into Goodsir’s arms. Solomon looks away, unable to watch this broken sailor become a husk of his former self.

Death would have been a mercy for the man, and Solomon can hardly blame the man for wishing it. A quick bullet to the head would be clean versus the creeping starvation and ruin that they all are marching themselves toward.

With a grunt, he flings the strap of his rifle over his shoulder again and marches away from the rabble. Edward follows, close on his heels.

When Solomon cannot keep his silence any longer, he hisses over his shoulder, his eyes blazing, “Why did you stop me?”

Edward, staring at the ground at first, raises his eyes in defiance. “The last thing we need is to turn on each other.”

“He could have shot one of the captains, and then where would be?”

“Captain Crozier had it under control.”

“Is that what you think?” Solomon whips around, shoving his face close to Edward’s. “How much do you think that man can actually stop?”

Edward deflates, but he keeps his eyes trained on Solomon’s. “He’s your captain as well, sergeant.”

He does not miss the warning in Edward’s voice. He feels the rage tinting his voice as he jams a finger into Edward’s chest. “I do not and cannot understand why you follow him, after everything that has happened.”

The anger falls away, Edward's chin dipping forward, and he closes his eyes, the deep lines in his face betraying his exhaustion. “I trust him. I only ask that you try to do the same.”

“I can’t,” Solomon growls, his hand gripping the lapel of Edward’s coat.

His knuckles turn white where his fist has wrenched into the wool, and he flinches when Edward covers it with his own hand.

Despondent, Solomon bites out, each word a painful admission, “But damn it all, I trust _you_.”

He shoves Edward away from him and stalks toward the edge of the line of tents. A part of him wishes he could have traded places with Morfin and received a lead kick to the brain. As he glares at the horizon, illuminated dimly by the moon and aurora, he ponders what his chances of survival would be if he were to simply walk away, and what would kill him first; the cold or the monster?

The sun has not yet risen when he returns to the tent. He passes by the medical tent where he can hear Morfin moaning in his sleep. The noise compels Solomon to walk faster. The other men on watch are too tired to pay Solomon much heed as he once again foregoes the company of the other marines and instead heads toward the line of tents used for storage and a makeshift wardroom. He blinks in surprise when he lifts the canvas flap to find Edward awake, a candle lit beside him, and his pipe hanging loosely from his lips as he sits propped up on a sailor’s bag.

“It’ll be morning watch soon,” Solomon says as he sets his rifle against the crate. His eyes are drawn to the chipped cup where it has tipped over, the tea having left a wet stain on the wood.

Despite the crack, it did not break from its fall.

Wordlessly, Edward scoots over as Tozer removes the upper half of his slops and settles beside him on the blankets. He holds up the pipe, and Tozer accepts the peace offering. He turns onto his side to face Edward and cannot help but smirk when he sees Edward’s eyes dart to where his lips close around the stem of the pipe. He unfurls his arm so that Edward can maneuver close to him, resting his cheek on Solomon’s chest. He feels the man sigh as he relaxes into Solomon’s one-arm embrace.

They pass the pipe a few more times until the taste of tobacco grows faint. One of Edward’s hands trace patterns idly on Solomon’s chest, catching at the buttons of his coat.

He inhales, his fingers pinching at a loose thread.

“Did something happen when I was gone? After I left Terror?”

Solomon sets the pipe on the ground, eyes trained on the canvas overhead. “Yes.”

“Will you tell me?”

He runs his tongue along the line of his teeth before sighing and squeezing Edward’s shoulders.

“I’ve been threatened with court martial if I do.”

Edward is frowning when he twists in Solomon’s embrace and leans up on his chest. “I won’t let that happen.”

“That’s not a promise you can keep.”

“I’ll speak with Crozier,” he says, shaking his head. “What happened?”

Solomon presses his thumb against Edward’s bottom lip, his hand cupping his chin. “I want you to say it again. Then I’ll tell you.”

His brow furrowed, Edward asks, “Say what again?”

“My name.”

The request takes Edward by surprise, his eyes widening a fraction and his mouth falling open. He swallows, his eyes looking away before he inches forward, their noses almost touching.

He says _Solomon_ like it is something precious, a secret known only to him and that he has deigned to share. His heart beats fast, where their chests are pressed together. Solomon’s heart keeps a similar, rapid tempo. Edward closes his eyes and says it again, his breath hot against Solomon’s lips.

His voice catches when he says it a third time, Solomon’s fingers digging into his hair.

Solomon pulls him into a kiss, and when it ends, he presses their foreheads together and returns the favor, the two syllables of the lieutenant’s name melting on his tongue like a fine honey, made all the more sweet at the warmth coming from Edward’s eyes when he opens them.

He trusts Edward, and so he tells him of Fairholme’s sledge party. There is not much to tell, and by the time the Arctic sun is high above their heads, both men have resumed their patterns and duties in the camp. Each time their paths cross as the lieutenants prepare the hunting parties and as Edward catches his eye from where he stands at the entrance to the medical tent, Solomon feels a thaw in the pack surrounding his heart where it had clenched like some frozen vice.

Underneath the fear and fatigue, a quiet hope undulates as innocuous and sweet as birdsong on a foggy, spring morning, and Solomon would be loath to close his ears to it.

**Author's Note:**

> [my tumblr](https://whalersandsailors.tumblr.com)


End file.
